


In which Geralt is a boxer and Jaskier smells like french fries-

by stereo556



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A lotta tough love though, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Boxer Geralt, Disassociation, Discussion of childhood abuse / neglect, Drinking, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Good Parent Calanthe, Idiots in Love, Jaskier has daddy issues, Jealousy, M/M, McDonald's Jaskier, POV Alternating, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, So does Geralt, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Some discussion of fasting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, We'll Get There I Promise, Weird fighter diets, Yennefer is pretty selfish in this one I'm sorry, don't we all?, manipulative relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23054632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereo556/pseuds/stereo556
Summary: Calanthe, known professionally as the Lioness, is a famous boxer and the owner of renown fighting gym, Cintra. Geralt's a prize fighter, who recently started training with the Lioness. Jaskier's an adrift twenty-something estranged from his Aunt Calanthe, and bitter at the gym and the sport that, years ago, claimed the life of his mother. Jaskier is working at McDonald's when he meets and falls hard for a certain mysterious golden-eyed god of a man, before realizing his involvement with the world Jaskier's been trying so hard to put behind him.Fluff, misunderstandings, and angst ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 85
Kudos: 216





	1. In which Jaskier learns the consequences of drinking and instagramming-

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fanfiction ever so bear with me. I just love love, y'all. ;) I'll update the tags and rating as we go. 
> 
> I'm planning to post weekly(ish).

Jaskier pulls on his work uniform and sighs. Despite multiple attempts to rinse it with his favourite chamomile soaps, (which are _expensive_ , damnit) the polo still somehow smells like stale french fries.

If you’d have asked Jaskier six months ago if he could ever grow to hate fries, his answer would have been resolutely _no fucking way_. But working overnights at a downtown McDonald’s had changed his mind. Being too broke to afford food besides what he could skim off work probably didn’t help much either, but hey, at least ketchup has vitamin C so… he’s not going to get scurvy? Probably?

  
_Silver linings._

He inspects himself in the mirror and sighs. He hates wearing black. The overhead lamp washes him out and he looks like a corpse with bloodshot blue eyes. He looks like a little boy going to a funeral, and- Well. He doesn’t need to be thinking about _that_ right now.

Jaskier shakes his head abruptly and pulls on the cap that never fails to turn his hair into a greasy lopsided helmet by the end of his shift. He grins at himself sardonically. _Showtime._

It’s a slow night, which is his least favourite kind of night. At least when he’s slinging orders for gaggles of drunk college kids the time flies, even if he ends up with shaking limbs and an impending migraine on the bus home. But no, a slow night at McDonald’s-

_The night crawls to its inevitable demise / a bug trapped in amber-_

Oh, that’s good. He scribbles it down furtively on the back of a receipt and shoves it in his pocket. He yawns and cranes his neck to peer through the store’s tinted windows. 

_Watching the sun rise and the sky burn from behind the cash at McDonalds-_

Should he bother writing that one down? He considers it. Fuck, is his muse really _McDonald’s_ now? He used to be a goddamn artist, but he’s been too exhausted to _think_ since his dad-

No. _No._ This is depressing enough already. He refuses to think about his asshole father right now.

And then there was everything that happened with the Countess-

Fuck. _No._ He is absolutely not thinking about his ex-boss and ex-lover, either. He is definitely _not_ thinking about the bed they’d shared and those sheets, _oh God, those sheets_ , the ones that were more expensive than literally anything he’d ever owned and felt like butter on his skin-

He really hadn’t meant to get involved with the mother of his violin tutee, much less a woman whose husband had enough power to completely destroy his burgeoning teaching-rich-kids-how-to-play-music business, but, well Jaskier’s heart has always been a little bit too enthusiastic for his head, and is it really so wrong to just love love, even when that love leads you into a warm bed with plush lips wrapped around your-

_Fuck_.

Jaskier turns to ask his closest friend and current shift manager, Triss, if there’s anything _anything_ he can be doing right now that isn’t just staring at an empty McDonald’s and drowning in horny self-recrimination-

She just raises her eyebrows, and gestures for him to turn around and resume his post.

Jaskier sighs dramatically, but perks up as he notices a broad-shouldered man, wearing a grey sweat suit, with the hood pulled up. The man is hunched over himself as he approaches the counter, it’s almost as though he’s trying to conceal his bulk, which is frankly hilarious because it would be impossible not to notice that this man is Built.

_Well, this morning just got a little bit more interesting._

“Why, good morrow, sir! Tell me, what refreshment or libation can I tempt you with on this fine day?”

Jaskier can feel the back of his head burning as Triss shoots him a Look. _Oh fuck off, Triss_. _It’s been a long night, let me play with the script._

The Built man grunts and Jaskier begrudgingly acknowledges that 5am isn’t usually the hour people are most susceptible to his charms-

“Might I recommend the Egg McMuffin? Truly a delight. A house specialty, in fact! Freshly fried hash browns… I must say, Triss here, is an _absolute_ sorceress with the fryer... Add a dash of ketchup, and-” he pauses to make a chef’s kiss in the air, “-heaven!”

OK, fine he’ll admit that he’s getting a little carried away. Even for him.

Jaskier hears a huff from the Built man, and looks to him eagerly, hoping he’s earned at least a faint laugh. And that’s how Jaskier finds himself looking into-

_A pair of searing liquid gold eyes / that burned right through me-_

Oh my God, this man is gorgeous.

_Cheekbones chiseled from marble / hair of ripening wheat-_

“Coffee. Black.”

“S-sorry, I mean, uh, excuse me?”

Jaskier is secure enough in his masculinity to admit that his voice _may_ have shot up a register or two.

“Black coffee, idiot,” Triss whispers to Jaskier good humouredly. She deftly muscles Jaskier out of the way and takes his place at the cash. “You’re shift’s over anyway, Jas. Go home. Get some sleep. I’m honestly worried you’re losing your grip on reality.”

“What size of coffee was that, sir?" She smiles sweetly at the Built man.

“I-” Jaskier is torn between wanting to stare just a little bit longer at this handsome Nordling god who has just stumbled into McDonalds, and wanting to get the hell out of this greasy purgatory as soon as possible.

Triss shoots him one last Look, and Jaskier hastily retreats. He sneaks one more glance over his shoulder, and this time he _swears_ the man has cracked an amused, if tired, smile.

Jaskier absent-mindedly checks his phone on the bus ride back to his apartment. He has two missed calls, three text messages, and a voicemail.

_Aunt C:_ Stop dodging my calls. It’s getting old. 

_Aunt C:_ I’m not joking. If you don’t fucking call me back I WILL find you.

_Aunt C:_ … I know where you live, Jaskier.

He groans. He can hear her saying _Jaskier_ in his head like a threat, the “a” overly enunciated the same way she always says it when he’s done something stupid, or she’s just in a shit mood, or both. Usually both.

It’s just… he already knows how this conversation is going to go, and he really, really, really doesn’t want to have it?

_Why are you slinging burgers, Jaskier? You’re not a kid anymore, Jaskier. For God’s sake, you went to Juilliard, Jaskier._

_Why, yes Auntie Cal, I_ did _go to Juilliard. That’s why I’m 23 with 50k in student debt, a useless degree, 10 cents in my bank account, and a shitty studio apartment that sometimes smells like rotting fish for no determinant reason. And OK maybe I am dodging your calls like I’m still 16 and scared that you’ll yell at me for skipping curfew, but you know what, shut up, you don’t get to tell me that I’m not acting like an adult just because I might not know how to fold a fitted sheet and am kind of afraid of voicemails, and also kind of afraid of — well, you. But in my defense EVERYONE is kind of afraid of you, Lioness. So, like, maybe that’s a_ you _thing, dear Auntie._

He’s too tired for this. He’s always too tired for this. And too greasy. When did he get so goddamn greasy?

He shakes his imaginary aunt out of his head and fumbles his way up the stairs to his apartment. He sits down at his kitchen table, and tries, unsuccessfully, to think about nothing. He sighs and pulls out a dusty bottle of vodka from an otherwise empty pantry. He pours himself a glass. He empties the glass. He pours himself another one. 

_Maybe music isn’t my destiny, after all. Maybe I just wasn’t meant to be a musician. Maybe I was meant to be a… dentist! Yes, I would make a great dentist, except… Gross. No, I don’t want to put my fingers in strangers' mouths all day, OK, I’m crossing that one off the list. But anyway, music. I should have known it was worthless, right? Didn’t everyone tell me that growing up, from the guys at the gym to my dear ole da._

_May he rot in hell sooner rather than later-_

He pours himself more vodka. And then he pours himself a little more.

Listen, it’s not that Jaskier _doesn’t_ remember going on a rant on Instragram about the futility of the human endeavor, and the inability of art to begin to skim the surface of the complexity of the aching void inside each one of us. He _remembers_ announcing his formal retirement from music as he endeavours to find a more honest way of living which doesn’t distract from the fundamental horror that is consciousness-

It’s just, maybe it’s a little bit blurry? Should he really have used the dog filter?

Jaskier wakes up sprawled across his pull-out couch that he never actually bothers to pull out. His head is full of fuzz, his neck is screaming, and he thinks there might be an earthquake because the floor of his apartment seems to be shaking. He blinks blearily at the glare of the midmorning sun and realizes that someone is pounding on his door.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” Calanthe snaps as she strides past him into the apartment, sparing a disapproving look at the squalid state of his apartment.

“G’day to you too, Auntie Cal.” His words come out muffled, as though overnight his tongue has somehow become too big for his mouth. “Been awhile.” 

Calanthe, known as the Lioness by her boxing trainees at her elite training gym, Cintra, is an intimidating woman. Tall and muscular, at age 62 her dark hair is just starting to show streaks of grey. Her expressive deep-set eyes are just as likely to glint with mischief as with rage, though, unfortunately for Jaskier, this morning they are burning with the latter. She knocks a pile of books off a folding chair and takes the seat, imperious as a queen perching on her throne. 

“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” Calanthe’s voice is clipped and scathing. Jaskier winces at the sound of his given name, “Can you explain to me why I got a frantic call from my precious granddaughter Ciri, who, I’ll have you know, is currently on a school trip to fucking _Disneyland_ , at 8am this morning _begging_ me to check up on her idiot older cousin, because he seems to be ‘having a nervous breakdown’, ‘threatening to quit music permanently’, and is ‘still not picking up his phone’? She’s supposed to be enjoying her time at the _happiest place on earth_ , Julian.”

Jaskier wearily sinks into the couch and cradles a cushion to his chest defensively.

“Um. Kids spend too much time on social media these days?”

He tries for a sheepish smile, but he can feel his face heating up, and his eyes burning. He really, really doesn’t want to cry in front of Calanthe, so he stares resolutely at a spot of peeling parquet flooring and keeps his mouth clamped shut.

_Melitele’s tits, why did he give Ciri his new address. Did he really need a Christmas card_ that _badly?_

Calanthe sighs, “I’m not here to lecture you. It’s just, we haven’t heard from you in over six months—since, well.... And I know it’s… I know you don’t want anything to do with Cintra — the gym, the training, the fighting, the matches — you resent all of it. You have made that _abundantly_ clear. But we’re still _your family,_ even if you hate the family business. I… I didn’t fucking change your sheets every night when you were seven and still wetting the bed only to be left on read _for months_ by a bratty twenty-something who has _long_ outgrown his cute ‘teen rebellion’ phase.”

Jaskier barks out a laugh.

“Firstly, I’m still cute. Secondly, left on read, huh? Ciri teach you that?”

“Don’t change the subject,” she snaps back, her lips twitching up into a smile, despite herself.

“Fine, I- You’re right. I’m sorry. Everything just really fucking sucks sometimes and being around asshole meatheads giving themselves concussions doesn’t help but, uh… I guess that still doesn’t give me the right to be a dick.”

Calanthe stands and nods decisively. “Good. Ciri’s back next week. We’ll see you on Sunday for dinner.”

Jaskier hesitates.

“It’s not a request, Jaskier.”

He opens his mouth to ask the question he knows he needs to ask, but a croak comes out instead of words.

Still, Calanthe nods again, her dark eyes a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion with just a glimmer of guilt.

“He’s gone,” she says in a tone that, if Jaskier didn’t know any better, he would call gentle, “I officially bought out my asshole brother last month. He has no reason to be at the gym, and I have no reason to think that we’ll be seeing him again anytime soon. Besides, you barely even have to set foot in the gym if you don’t want to. Just come straight upstairs. OK?”

“Right… OK,” Jaskier mumbles, his eyes back on the cheap flooring. He shouldn’t be surprised. He _isn’t_ surprised. There was maybe just this little, tiny, super small, miniscule part of him that thought maybe, despite it all, his dad would have cared enough to try and say goodbye, to maybe even… apologize.

_I never claimed not to be an idiot._

Jaskier bites the inside of his cheeks and tastes iron. Maybe he should try using superglue on the parquet or something.

Calanthe pauses to ruffle his hair affectionately before striding towards the door.

“See you next week, then. And take a shower, kid. You look like shit and you smell like vodka and french fries.”

Jaskier waits until he hears his front door click behind her before stuffing his face into the cushions of the couch, covering himself with a blanket, and willing himself to disappear.


	2. In which Geralt daydreams about shotgunning a pizza

“Do you think he’s a spy?”

Triss looks up at Jaskier from her inventory list. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Built guy!” he hisses. “Look at him. He’s been in the corner of a McDonald’s at 2am for like an hour, nursing a black coffee, and just like _rabidly_ watching other people eat. Who _does_ that?”

“Jaskier. I have a very important question for you. Do you know what a spy actually is?”

“What! Yeah, I mean of course I do. They’re mysterious and like, you know, spy on… things-”

“What kind of things, Jaskier?”

“Well… like government secrets and shit?”

“And do we keep any government secrets here at McDonalds?”

“I mean… I don’t know, maybe that’s what he’s here to find out?”

Triss snorts loudly enough that Marsha starts and gives the two of them a quizzical glance from the cash.

“Just go back to counting boxes of straws, Jaskier.”

“Oh right. Shit.”

Triss sighs. “What?”

“Um. I, uh… yeah, I definitely lost count.”

Triss stares at her best friend, and marvels at his ability to simultaneously be both a creative genius and a complete and utter moron.

“Jaskier, I need you to know that you are _truly_ terrible at your job.”

He grins at her fondly, a spark that Triss doesn’t trust for one second in his eyes.

“Oh please, Triss, we all know I was just hired for my good looks, anyway.”

“Sure, Jaskier. Ronald McDonald himself was like, you know what we need? A nice piece of chaotic bi ass to incompetently clean out our deep fryers.”

“I mean… I’ve been told my ass looks great when I bend over, so-”

“Remind me to ask HR if a person can sexually harass… himself? You know what, never mind. Just… clean out the stale pastries from this afternoon and then go on your break.”

“At your service, milady.”

Jaskier almost knocks himself over with a low bow to Triss before scrambling away to surreptitiously pocket some stale pastries.

***

Geralt’s stomach makes a sound like a rabid wolf. He swallows more black coffee — cold at this point — and eyes a group of girls in tube dresses stuffing their faces with chicken nuggets.

_Two days. The fight’s in two days,_ he reminds himself. _Two days. I make weight. I fight. I win. And then I shotgun a fucking pizza._

He contents himself with thinking about toppings. He is _so_ springing for anchovies, he doesn’t care that Yennefer thinks it’s disgusting, he needs the salt. And actually, it doesn’t really matter what Yennefer thinks anymore, now does it?

_Fuck_.

He watches a red-eyed stoner tuck into a Big Mac and heaves a sigh of jealousy. The great fighter, the White Wolf, just a loner glutton for fucking punishment.

He really should go home. Hit something. Sleep.

But Yenn hasn’t found a new place yet, so she’s still sleeping in their- _his_ \- bed, and he can’t bring himself to go back to that sad, cold living room, and that sad, lumpy couch just yet. 

_Why didn’t I send her to a hotel, again? It’s not like she can’t afford it…_

Maybe he should just go hang out at that 24-hour gym a few blocks away. It’s shit, but it does the job when Cintra’s closed. But he can already imagine the Lioness’s face if she found out that he was doing any unapproved strength training just _days_ before the big fight-

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt’s eyes snap up from his coffee and he finds himself reflected in a pair of bright blue eyes.

_Oh right. This asshole. I guess that’s a better line than “good morrow.”_

Geralt grunts a dismissal and goes back to staring at his cup of coffee.

Unphased, the man plops into the seat across from him.

“So, what did you think of my customer service the other day? My manager, Triss, tells me that I’m _terrible_ at my job, but personally I think customers enjoy a bit of _panache.”_

“Hm.”

“Oh, come on! I’m sure you have a review,” the man reaches into his pocket, pulls out two chocolate chip cookies, and waves one towards Geralt who slowly shakes his head no. The man shrugs. “Fine! More for me. But come on, out with it! What’d you think? Wouldn’t want to… keep a man with pastries in his pants waiting.”

With that, the man shoves an entire cookie into his mouth, letting crumbs spill down his chin. “I’m Jaskier, by the way.” he says, the syllables muffled by half masticated carbs. 

“I know.”

“Wait, what?”

“Nametag.”

“Oh. Er. Right.”

Geralt stares at the man. _Jaskier._ Jaskier’s pale and lanky, with distractingly long, elegant fingers and blue saucers for eyes. Geralt’s bad at gauging ages, but Jaskier can’t be more than 25? He has a nice smile, and, well, he’d probably be good looking out of a McDonald’s uniform, in lighting other than McDonald’s sterile fluorescence.

_What the fuck am I thinking about?_ He chides himself. _Yenn is literally still sleeping in our- my- bed._

Absently Geralt realizes that Jaskier has started talking again.

“And so I was like, maybe that’s _why_ he’s here. So, how about it? Was I right?”

“Right about what?”

Jaskier’s face cracks into a mischievous grin and he leans in conspiratorially. Geralt can’t deny that he has a very nice grin.

“Are you a spy staking out McDonald’s in order to gain access to our government secrets?”

Geralt chokes on acrid coffee. _Hm._

“... No, Jaskier. I am not a spy”

“Hm, but now see that’s _exactly_ what a spy would say, isn’t it?”

Geralt honestly has no response to this so he stands and decides that the suffocating quiet of his apartment is probably preferable to whatever… _this_ is.

“Ah, fleeing the scene so soon, are we? I knew I was onto something.”

Jaskier winks at him, and Geralt feels something in his stomach. It’s probably heartburn.

“See you around, mystery spy man!” Jaskier calls after him.

Geralt definitely _doesn’t_ think about that wink while he stares into the darkness of his soon to be solitary apartment.

***

Geralt makes weight. Geralt wins the fight. Geralt gets paid.

The next day, he’s in the mood to celebrate but his ex-fiancée is still occupying his apartment, and he _really_ doesn’t want to hear about the carb content of the pizza he intends to inhale and the beers he plans to knock back, so he thinks its best to keep his indulgences out of the house.

He walks around the neighborhood with no particular destination in mind. Honestly, he still feels like a foreigner in this city. He moved here less than six months ago after the Lioness recruited him from his gym in Brooklyn, and Yenn convinced him that moving to the west coast would be a good _fresh start_ for the two of them.

_That had worked out well_.

He’ll admit that Cintra is a good gym. Great, even. The Lioness is a seasoned athlete and professional with all the right industry contacts. Geralt knows if he so chooses, he could move onto more televised fights and bigger sponsorships, and hell, maybe even acting gigs. There’s a lot more money in all of that, even if, to him, there’s less glory. He knows it’s what his old coach Vesemir always wanted for him. Hell, it’s what Yenn always wanted for him, though she was a woman who would forever crave more influence and power. Geralt frankly doesn’t give a shit about influence, power, or even money, really. He just needs to finally figure out what the fuck it is that he _actually_ wants.

He loves the athleticism of the fight, he knows that. The skill. The strategy. The adrenaline. But to be honest, the showmanship of it all had always been lost on him. What is it that he’s _really_ doing when he becomes the _White Wolf_. And is it worth the blood that’s on his hands because of it?

Lost in thought, he finds himself back at the doors of McDonald’s. He pauses for a minute.

_Hm._

He recognizes the blue-eyed man at the cash — _Jaskier. His name’s Jaskier_ — before Jaskier spots Geralt taking his place in the boisterous Saturday night line. Geralt takes the opportunity to observe Jaskier as he makes change, dashes between the stations behind the counter, and calls out order numbers in a surprisingly melodic voice. He looks more harried than Geralt’s ever seen him, light brown hair peeking out from his cap and plastering itself to a sweaty forehead, movements taught and controlled—the smile on Jaskier’s face is downright mechanical.

The crowd of hungry drunkards doesn’t bother Geralt. He’s used to tuning out aggressive crowds to get what he wants, and he could probably break all of these people in half with his little finger. He does notice the stream of verbal vitriol being flung at Jaskier and the other McDonald’s employees, and feels his hackles rise.

_Why is everyone a fucking asshole?_

When he finally gets up to the cash, he’s relieved to be called to Jaskier’s station.

“Thank you for choosing McDonalds, how can I- Oh! Hello, spy man!”

Geralt’s stomach does something funny as he watches Jaskier’s customer service smile break into a real one.

“Hi, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s smile widens even further, and Geralt notices that he has the hint of a dimple on his left cheek.

“You remembered! Sorry about all the riff raff tonight, I’ll just grab you your black coffee”

Geralt chooses not to remind Jaskier that he’s still wearing a nametag.

“Actually, could you make it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese combo with a root beer?”

Jaskier looks back at him with wide eyes.

“The spy man, eats. Of course! And how about a milkshake — on the house. Now, you don’t strike me as a vanilla man, but I would _love_ to hear your preference.”

And then Jaskier winks at him, which is the only way Geralt can explain what he says next-

“I can think of something else I’d prefer on the house.”

Jaskier looks at him, confused, for just a moment, and then his face goes megawatt. 

“Oh my God, spy man! Are you flirting with me? You are _so_ flirting with me. This is…”

Jaskier’s interrupted by a stocky bro with a greasy bag clutched in one fist. The bro’s eyes are glazed over and he’s wavering from side to side, drunken sea legs on dry land. 

“Hey dickface, my order’s wrong.”

Jaskier’s face darkens and then reassembled into a flawless customer service mask as he holds up a finger for Geralt to… hold that thought. 

“I am terribly sorry, sir,” Jaskier furrows his brow in consternation, “If you could just let me know what’s wrong, I’ll have it fixed in a jiff.”

“Fag,” the bro spits back.

A few things happen at once.

Jaskier leans forward to check the man’s receipt. Geralt moves to stand in between the bro and Jaskier. The bro trips over Geralt’s foot in the process of throwing a punch at Jaskier, manages to catch Jaskier in the mouth, before landing teeth-first into the countertop and crumpling to the floor.

“Fuck,” Jaskier yells as he recoils and cradles his mouth in his hands. 

“Fuuuu,” the bro squeals before collapsing onto the ground.

“Get the fuck out of my McDonald’s,” Trish screeches, bounding over to Jaskier.

“Yeah, it’s time for you to leave, buddy,” Geralt rumbles, hauling the bro out of the building by the scruff of his salmon button-up. 

Geralt know these types of idiots well, so he takes a minute to… reiterate a few important life lessons.

_Never_ use homophobic slurs. _Never_ assault a service worker. Get the fuck out of here, sleep it off, and _never_ return to this particular McDonalds unless you want your inevitable trip to the dentist to get that much more expensive. 

Geralt shoves the bro back off into the night and eyes the Mcdonald’s, wondering if it would be too presumptuous to go back in to make sure that Jaskier’s OK. He’s still considering when he feels a tentative touch on his forearm.

“Hey.” Jaskier looks different outside of the McDonald’s. He’s changed out of his uniform into a pair of ripped Indigo jeans, a v-neck white t-shirt and a red motorcycle jacket, with a backpack slung over his left shoulder. Jaskier’s hair is greasy and sticking up at odd angles, and something primal in Geralt wants to reach his fingers into it and just _tug_. Jaskier’s blue eyes glimmer under the streetlights, and Geralt notices a bruise darkening on his lower lip.

Jaskier notices the look and ducks his head sheepishly. 

“Triss is sending me home early on account of, you know,” he gestures vaguely to his face, “But I was kind of hoping I might find you.”

“Hm.” Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Um. Yeah. Listen, I don’t want to be too forward, but you did kind of just like, start flirting with me and then literally save my life, so could I maybe buy you a drink or something? I mean it has to be cheap because, well, minimum wage is a bitch, but-”

Geralt looks at Jaskier and remembers that damn wink. It’s the only thing that can explain what he does next.

As though in a trance, Geralt slips his hand behind Jaskier’s neck and leans down to kiss the bruise gently, the feather light touch of their lips tickling his stubble.

_Fuck_.

Jaskier inhales what sounds like a squeak and leans into the kiss. He breaks away with what sounds like a baffled laugh.

“So, uh, that’s a yes, then right?”

“That’s a yes,” Geralt confirms. “Wait, actually no.”

“Oh,” Jaskier’s face crumbles, “That’s fine then, I’ll just…”

“No wait. Fuck. I just meant that I’m buying.”

Jaskier grins. 

“Deal. Just um, one other thing?”

“Hmm.”

“What’s your name, spy man?”

That startles a laugh out of Geralt.

“Geralt. And I’m still not a spy.”

“That’s still exactly what a spy would say. Nice to meet you, Geralt. Now come on, _I_ need to drink away my sorrows, and I know a decent place around the corner.”

Jaskier looks imploringly at Geralt and motions the way with his head. And then he winks.

_Fuck._


	3. In which Calanthe makes meatloaf and Jaskier has angst-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt had a great date. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that there ended up being more discussion of abuse / trauma / PTSD in this chapter than I'd intended. I'm sorry guys, I'm working through some shit, OKAY.
> 
> It'll get better. It might get a lil worse first. But I promise it'll get better.

Jaskier doesn’t realize how happy he is until he starts singing in the shower. 

Singing. He’s singing. He… well, he’d sworn that off like the melodramatic bitch he is, but _fuck it_ something about that man with the golden eyes, and the strong arms had felt so perfect, so transcendent, so _blissfully otherworldly_ when they’d wrapped around him... 

_Well, fuck me. Let’s whip out those arias._

Jaskier gets out of the shower and shakes himself off uselessly when he realizes that he doesn’t actually have any clean towels. He inspects himself in the mirror, noting that his bruised lip has gone yellow- 

_You soothed the fiery pain of my injuries with your sweet touch_. 

He’s _so_ writing that one down. 

He also notices that he has a purpling hickey just below his collarbone. 

_You coaxed the colour of lust into my delicate skin._

Jaskier is grinning so hard that his cheeks hurt. 

Still slightly damp, he pulls on a t-shirt and boxers, and roots around in the back of his closet.

“Hello, beautiful,” he purrs to his guitar, “I’m sorry to have kept you languishing for so long.” 

He pulls Filavandrel out of its case and plucks a few strings gingerly. He winces. It’s painfully out of tune. 

He lets his mind wander as he tunes the guitar and thinks about last night. Geralt looked so perfect in the dive bar, sipping house lager like some kind of Nordling god. Jaskier shivers when he remembers the way Geralt’s looks had lingered while Jaskier bumbled his way through a round of drunken pool, clumsily enticing Geralt to help him with his stance because, gods, he’d just needed the man’s _hands_ on him. The way Geralt’s eyes had glittered under streetlights as he pushed Jaskier against a wall, pressing against him, lips on his mouth, on his chest-

_Huh._

But then Jaskier had whispered _take me home_ , and Geralt had gone all stiff and formal, and practically sprang back to stand at an arm’s length, uncomfortably twisting his fingers together and stubbornly calling Jaskier an Uber home, despite Jaskier’s protests that he could _walk just fine, thank you_ \- 

Jaskier feels his grin twist into a painful grimace. 

_Shit. Did I fuck it up? How did I fuck it up so quickly? I always fucking fuck everything up. Is it a curse or am I just a piece of shit? Dad always says I have a talent for shovelling shit like a shit dwelling swine- Melitele's tits, Father, that metaphor doesn’t even track, you ignorant boor of a man, can’t even insult your own son properly-_

Jaskier’s phone dings and he inhales sharply. 

He carefully puts down his guitar. He uses his index finger and thumb to pinch the skin of his wrist until it hurts, and he thinks about how it feels in this _exact moment_ in time. He thinks about how he’s _here_ in _his_ apartment that is _his_ and the only danger he’s in is from those gross house centipedes that always seem to be darting around just to fuck with him. 

He releases himself from the pinch, cracks his knuckles gingerly, and picks up his phone. He has a text. 

_~sexAy spy man:_ I’d really like to see you again soon, Jaskier. 

Jaskier lets out a noise that some might characterize as a _squee_ but that he knows is actually a very dignified, and daresay, _elegant_ exclamation of his enamorment-

_OK, OK, maybe that was a squee._

  
  
  


Jaskier is on his way to his Aunt Cal’s for family dinner and that’s fine. Really. It’s totally fine. It’s _good_ even. He could really use food that isn’t fried, anyway. 

And his shoulders are _not_ embracing his earlobes as he walks down the familiar street. He is _not_ full of nervous energy that feels like static under his skin, and he is _not_ hyper alert to the normal noises of the street. I mean sure, he has some _memories_ here, and sure, maybe he doesn’t really want to _remember_ those memories right now. But everyone has _memories,_ right? He’s not fussed about it- 

“Jaskier!” A high-pitched voice yells and he nearly jumps out of his skin, an amorphous blob of terror flooding his throat. 

_Breathe, idiot_. 

A head of bright, white blonde hair attached to bright blue eyes and a skinny frame is shooting towards him. He feels the terror dripping out of him as his cousin pulls him into a firm embrace. 

“I’ve missed you so much!” 

Ciri releases him and narrows her eyes. 

“What happened to your face?” 

Jaskier laughs and waves her off. 

“I’m a clutz, that’s all. And I’ve missed you too, my luminous forest sprite. When did you get so tall?” 

Ciri gives him an eye roll that reminds him that her thirteenth birthday is almost upon them. 

“Don’t be a cliche, Jaskier.” 

“Moi?”

Jaskier gives her a dramatic affronted look, but he can’t hold it for long and breaks into a giggle, and then Ciri giggles, and they’re both giggling and relief courses through Jaskier like morphine 

“Now come on. Grandma made meatloaf because she said you looked like you needed iron.” . 

  
  
  


He doesn’t want to look at Cintra. He doesn’t want to look at the giant boxing gloves hanging from the ceiling, the clean, padded black floor, the weights, the bags, or the fucking _ring_. 

He looks around anyway because his traitorous brain has always been a masochist. 

  
  
  


He looks at the bags and all of a sudden he’s _so much smaller_ and his face is a mess of sweat and tears, and he’s begging, because he’s _sorry,_ and he wants to be good _so badly_ but he can’t _do_ this, doesn’t want to _do_ this. And his hands are blistered and bloody and there’s so much yelling and when he pukes it tastes like sticky sweet yellow Gatorade and he can still hear the yelling over his retching and it thunders in him like a shuddering heartbeat. 

  
  
  


Ciri touches his hand tentatively and he releases his fist, admiring the crescent moons decorating his palm. 

“You’re OK, Jaskier,” she murmurs and, _fuck,_ what is wrong with him that he keeps worrying this sweet girl when _he’s_ the one who should be looking out for _her_. 

“I know,” he says and tries to smile brightly. “Hey when we get up there do you want to force Auntie Cal to take selfies with us? We can pick the filters that will annoy her the most--like that flower crown one.” 

“Oh _please_ , nobody uses that one anymore,” Ciri laughs, “But yes, _obviously_ we’re doing that.” 

She gives him a quick hug, grabs his hand gently, and leads him through the private Staff Only door and up the staircase that leads to their apartment, immediately dashing into her room to grab her iPhone. 

  
  
  


“Oh good. You’re on time for once.” 

Calanthe looks up from the counter, where she’s mashing potatoes, her eyes widening slightly- 

“Who the fuck did that to your face? Did _he_ -” 

“-nice to see you too, Auntie.” Jaskier cuts her off. 

She makes what almost sounds like a growl in the back of her throat. 

“ _Jaskier._ ” 

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He is so, so fucking tired. 

“No, Cal. No, appearances from dear ‘ole da. Just a random drunk asshole who wasn’t thrilled with my customer service, but honestly, was probably just deeply threatened by my good looks.” 

Calanthe snorts and goes back to mashing potatoes with what Jaskier thinks is slightly more force than is actually necessary. She cocks her head towards the fridge. 

“Beers in there.” 

He grabs one and starts drinking it a little bit too quickly, eyes darting around the kitchen. 

It’s as cluttered as it ever was, dishes balancing precariously on open shelves, tubs of protein powder making a pyramid in the pantry. 

Calanthe’s makeshift office is stuffed in the corner, a desk overflowing with paperwork. A manila folder with a picture paperclipped to the outside catches his eye-

_It can’t be-_

Jaskier doesn’t realize that he’s picked up the folder and is staring, unseeing, at a picture of Geralt, until Calanthe gives him a small shove. 

“Stop gawking at my fighters, Jaskier,” she says, humour in her voice. She deftly plucks the folder from his fingers and puts it back on her desk. 

“Your… fighter,” Jaskier says slowly, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. 

Calanthe gives him a confused look. 

“Yes? Do you actually want to hear about this?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, so she shrugs and continues.

“He’s new at Cintra. I poached him from a gym in Brooklyn maybe… five months back? He’s a good fighter. Give it a year and he is going to make me _a lot_ of money. Already has, really-”

“Right.” 

Jaskier downs the rest of the beer in one gulp and goes back to the fridge for another one. If Calanthe notices that he’s shaking, she chooses not to comment. 

“Dinner’s almost ready. Go get Ciri, and then set the table, would you?” 

Jaskier nods mutely and ducks out of the room. 

  
  
  


“We’ll see you next week,” Calanthe grips his shoulder firmly and presses a bag of leftovers into his arms. There’s a hint of _something_ in her voice that Jaskier can’t quite place, at least not right now, while his thoughts that are roiling in his brain, “Ciri missed you.” 

  
  
  


Jaskier scrapes together enough cash to pick up a pint of vodka on the way home. 


	4. In which Roach the cat tries to suffocate Geralt with love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is love without a lil angst?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all staying safe during this difficult time. <3
> 
> This is a Geralt POV chapter, which I was having trouble with until I realized that the man really loves cats. 
> 
> I don't make the rules, sorry- oh wait, I DO.

Geralt is choking. His mouth is covered with something soft and warm, and he tries to take a breath, but instead finds himself inhaling wispy hair instead of oxygen-

“Damnit Roach,” he mutters to himself, pushing his cat off of his face and down onto his chest and shooting him a glare. 

Roach the cat meets Geralt’s eyes defiantly and then stretches dramatically across Geralt’s chest, unconcerned by the man’s ire.

_Well, at least one of us is comfortable._

Geralt stretches his own neck and winces at the cracking noises it makes.

_Gods mark my words — I am going to burn this couch._

He begrudgingly starts scratching Roach’s ears, and the fluffy black cat starts purring contentedly.

Geralt had found Roach meowing distressingly in a dumpster behind his apartment seven years ago. The little fluff ball had been mangy, underfed, and lice-bitten, and had narrowed bright green-yellow eyes as she hissed at Geralt. Over the weeks that followed, he’d slowly built up trust with her, bringing her food every day, and talking to her in dulcet tones about anything and everything. She was a surprisingly good listener.

One day, as he sat in the dark alleyway talking to her and coaxing her closer with more treats, she had come up to him, butted her head against his hand, curled up in his lap and started purring. She’d made it clear that she’d chosen him, and from that day forward, Geralt knew that he would always do right by her.

_Little did I know she’d turn into an entitled little brat_ , he thinks fondly, looking down at the cat who had now curled herself into a tight ball on his chest. Her purrs thunder through his body, and he knows that, even though his body is protesting at the awkward way that his limbs are contorted to fit on the couch that he is now convinced is _actually_ a torture device, there’s no way he'll move until Roach has decided that she's done with her nap.

“Geralt, are you finally awake?” An elegant voice lilts from the kitchen to the living room.

“Hm.” He grunts back.

Light footsteps approach, and Yennefer presses a cup of coffee into his hands. He attempts to drink it awkwardly, tilting his head back without sitting up so much that Roach will be pushed off his chest.

Yennefer snorts softly and extends a hand to stroke the cat’s head. Roach’s eyes immediately snap open and she swats at her and hisses before bolting from the room.

“Still not a fan of mine, even after all of these years,” she sounds amused, but Geralt knows her well enough to catch a hint of bitterness beneath her words, “I told you we should have gotten a dog instead.”

Geralt just shrugs.

“Well, at any rate darling, you’ll both be glad to hear that I’m finally getting out of your hair. My agent called — I booked a shoot in Bali and then I’m going back to New York for fashion week. I’m leaving now, but I’m sending someone later today to move the rest of my things into storage. Be a dear and make sure you’re here this afternoon at 3pm to open the door? We can talk when I get back next month, but I fully intend to move straight into my new place.”

Despite everything, Geralt still feels a pang in his chest mingled with annoyance at her presumption that he has nothing better to do than wait around for a moving company on one of his few days off.

Yenn leaving was for the best. He knew that. It was just a simple fact. When she'd ended things, all he could do was nod, because it was inevitable and it was right, but-

It still stung.

They’d met when they were so young, just a couple of determined kids trying to work their way out of poverty. They’d supported each other’s hard work, and fiercely advocated for one another, but there wasn’t—there had never been—any tenderness between them. Yennefer had been a fierce and determined girl who turned into a fierce and determined woman, and her power and ambition had long since outstripped her ability to be vulnerable. At least, with him.

That didn’t mean he could just stop caring about her. And it didn't mean he wasn’t going to miss her, with her caustic sense of humour that never failed to pull him out of a funk and the fire that burned so brightly inside of her he could feel its warmth just being in her presence. She just needed to be with someone with more ambition, and if he was being honest with himself, he needed to be with someone with more kindness.

He doesn't know how to say any of this out loud, so instead he just grunts and hopes she understands. 

She leans down and kisses him lightly on the cheek, and then straightens back up and looks at him with a wicked grin.

“Nice hickey, by the way, Geralt,” she winks, “I hope they know they’ll have rather large shoes to fill, but I _do_ applaud the initiative.”

Geralt flushes as he thinks about Jaskier-

“Look after yourself, Geralt.”

"Take care, Yenn." 

***

It had been a week and Jaskier still hadn’t responded to Geralt’s text. Should he send another one? Fuck, he's so bad at this. The last time he’d been dating, texting really hadn’t been that much of a thing...

Gods, he’s not _that_ old, is he?

Maybe Jaskier… just didn’t see it. Or maybe… he’d lost interest? But Gods, Jaskier’s cock had seem _plenty_ interested that night outside of the bar, that night that he’d-

Well, the night Gerald had rejected and then abruptly sent home the handsome man with the bright blue eyes and the pert-

_Fuck_.

“Get your head out of your ass, Geralt,” Calanthe’s voice is clipped and carries across the gym like a commander’s orders across a battlefield.

He grunts and shakes his head, returning to his drills, willing all of his attention into keeping his core taught and his footwork light.

The Lioness blows a whistle and Geralt lets his muscles go slack while he fumbles for his protein shake. He's surprised to find it shoved into his hand by a young, skinny girl with bright blonde hair. She smiles up at him with bright blue eyes in a way that reminds him unnervingly of another pair of eyes that had been haunting his thoughts lately-

“Hi Geralt!” she chirps.

He smiles at Calanthe’s precocious granddaughter, bemused. He’d truly never met a 12-year old girl so utterly unintimidated by hordes of freakishly strong, demonstrably violent men.

“Hi Ciri,” he replies.

“Soooooo,” she drags out the vowels and Geralt can tell that she’s about to ask him something he might not want to answer, “Grandma-said-that-if-I-asked-you-really-nicely-you-might-spar-with-me?”

Geralt furrows his brow, taking a moment to parse out the rushed words.

“Hmmm.”

“… please?”

Geralt looks her up and down, nonverbally reminding her that he’s at least three times her size.

“OK, I know you’re like, way bigger than me, and way stronger than me, I’m not an _idiot._ But I’m sick of sparring with the girls in my weight class, because, first of all, there’s only like three of us at the gym, and Amber barely even counts because she’s only here to fill her P.E. credit or something. Second, have you _talked_ to the boys my age around here? They are such jerks, that it’s not even satisfying to _hit_ them because that means I still have to look at their stupid faces.”

Geralt feels his chest shaking before he realizes that he’s laughing. Ciri is scowling at him, her face drawn into a perfect replica of the Lioness at her most displeased.

“I’m sorry, Ciri,” he chokes, taking a swig of his protein shake, “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… you’re right about boys your age. They can be huge jerks.”

Ciri looks back at him, slightly mollified.

“So, you’ll do it, then?”

Geralt sighs.

“As long as it’s alright with the Lioness…”

Ciri cuts him off with an excited squeal.

“Great! Grandma even says I can have the whole gym to myself if I want to practice on Sunday. Do you want to come by on Sunday?”

Geralt sighs again. On the one hand, Sunday is his one day off. On the other hand, Yenn is gone, Jaskier isn’t texting him back, and he has absolutely no idea how people _meet_ people to _do things_ with, so he’ll probably just spend it brooding in a dark room with a sleepy Roach anyway.

He nods.

“Sunday.”

Ciri’s smile takes up her entire face, and she trots away triumphantly. Geralt uncaps his water bottle, pour some over his head, and shakes himself off like a dog. Back to work.

***

Ciri’s damn determined. He’ll give her that. He’s even beginning to huff as he dodges her blows, which come fast and furious. He notices that she’s been neglecting to keep her guard up around her stomach, so he sneaks in a light jab-

She staggers back, the wind knocked out of her, and he panics for a moment before she grins at him and shoots out a thumbs up.

“I was leaving my stomach open,” she wheezes, “Got it.”

Geralt smiles, relieved.

“Sorry, it’s just… well actions usually make for a better lesson than words…”

“What the fuck is going on here?” Geralt turns, confused by the familiarity of the voice-

_Jaskier_.

The man does not look happy to see him. His eyes are ice as he sprints to the ring, ducking in as though he’s done it a million times-

_Wait has he done this before?_

-is all Geralt can think dumbly as the man shoves him.

“Enjoy hitting twelve-year-old girls, do you?” Jaskier snarls, “You’re all the same, you pieces of shit.”

“Jaskier, I...” Geralt trails off when the man shoves him again-

“Jaskier!” Ciri yells, lunging to engulf him with arms, and pulling him strongly into a hug.

_He’s shaking_ , Geralt realizes. Jaskier pulls Ciri’s arms off him roughly before turning to face her.

“Ciri,” his voice is ragged, “Ciri, tell me you’re OK, tell me you’re not hurt, tell me what the _fuck_ is happening?”

Ciri takes his hand in hers tightly.

“Jaskier. It’s OK. This is Geralt. He’s a friend. We were just practicing, that’s all. It was _just practice_.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier," Geralt offers tentatively, "I... I would never hurt her.”

“ _You just did, asshole,_ ” Jaskier whips around to face Geralt, his lip curling, his body coiled with a predator’s energy.

Ciri pulls at Jaskier’s arm. For his part, Geralt backs away slowly, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible.

“It’s OK,” she says softly, “I’m OK, Jaskier. This is Geralt. He’s a _friend_. Friends don’t hurt each other. He’s just helping me practice. That’s all. _Practice._ ” 

The energy finally slumps out of Jaskier and Geralt releases a breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Practice,” Jaskier mumbles, glancing around as though he's just woken from a dream and doesn't know how he found himself there, “Right. Obviously. You were practicing. And... once again, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“You are _not_ an idiot, Julian Alfred Pankratz,” Ciri replies fiercely.

“I’m just,” Jaskier drops his head to stare at the ground, “I’m just going to go, then.”

“No!” Ciri says sternly. “No, you are staying for dinner. And so is Geralt. Geralt is a nice guy, you’ll see. We’re going to eat spaghetti and we’re all going to feel better. Right, Geralt?”

Geralt hesitates.

“Right, Geralt?!” She asks again.

Geralt looks at Jaskier who is still staring miserably at the ground, and then at Ciri who is looking at him fiercely with bright blue eyes.

“Hmmm.”

Geralt catches Jaskier sneaking a glance up at him and for a second he thinks of Roach-

“I mean... Yes. Dinner. Dinner is uh, good. Is that OK, Jaskier?”

Geralt stares at Jaskier for an agonizing moment before Jaskier finally nods. 


	5. In which Jaskier holds a grudge against zucchini

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calanthe, Ciri, Geralt and Jaskier have dinner. It's not awkward AT ALL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, bit of a short one. It's been a tough mental health week, so THE MUSES are being fickle. 
> 
> do what you need to do to stay safe and sane, lovelies xo

“Hey, Cal,” Jaskier calls, not waiting for an answer before heading to the fridge for beer, and curiously sniffing at the tomato sauce simmering on the stove.

Calanthe comes out of the bedroom and inspects Jaskier sternly.

“Are you OK, Jaskier? You… look pale—have you been eating properly? Do I need to remind you _again_ that strawberry Pop Tarts are not a meal?”

Jaskier takes a gulp of the beer and considers Calanthe for a minute.

“OK, well, I refuse to concede your point that strawberry Pop Tarts are not a meal, because like all of the major food groups are _clearly_ represented…” Jaskier waves off Calanthe when she opens her mouth to object, “But, uh. I will admit that I have something of a cash flow issue… Meaning, fuck, I need to figure out something else to do for money, but… I don’t know, it’s a fucking recession, Cal.”

“You could always come work for me…”

“Auntie Cal, you know I respect you, but I would rather cut off my own fingers, batter them, stick them in a deep fryer, and then eat them for dinner than work for you.”

Calanthe sighs, unsurprised.

“I could lend you some money…”

“Same statement applies.”

“Fine. Had to try. Where’s Ciri, anyway?”

“Getting cleaned up downstairs. She roped her _sparring_ partner into staying for dinner, too. They’ll probably be up in a minute.” Jaskier’s voice sounds more bitter than he’d like it too, so he swallows more beer and grimaces.

Calanthe frowns and opens the fridge. “Rivia? Well, shit, I can’t feed him spaghetti.”

“Right. Silly me. Forgot that carbs are the Enemy. What are you doing letting her spar with that beast, anyway? It’s bad enough that she wants to fight, but you’re just throwing her to the fucking wolves now?”

“She’s training with my best fighter, not being attacked by muggers, Jasker. Calm down.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?” Jaskier splutters, his voice cracking.

Calanthe ignores him and shoves some zucchini in his hands. “Make yourself useful and chop this up. Lengthwise—it’ll work with the meat sauce as a fake pasta base.”

Jaskier grumbles to himself but grabs a cutting board, secretly pleased to have something to do to distract himself from the dread in the bottom of his stomach at the thought of dinner with Ciri, Cal, and… Geralt.

_Not much to lose at this point, anyway. The cat’s out of the bag, he’s definitely thinks that I’m psychotic by now, and- Well, and he’s not wrong. So, just- it was one random night and… some fucking amazing kissing… but fuck it, you are going to forget about it, because you are definitely totally completely over him, and even if you weren’t he is_ definitely _over you, or worse, he’s freaked out as fuck by you, and just add it to the list of things fucking Cintra has ruined-_

Jaskier chops the zucchini at an increasing pace. 

“Grandma!” Ciri bursts through the door, with a sheepish looking Geralt trailing behind her, “Geralt’s staying for dinner. And guess what! Geralt and Jaskier know each other, isn’t that fun?”

Calanthe looks curiously between Jaskier and Geralt. In the kitchen Jaskier ducks his head and glares at the zucchini as though it has personally wronged him. Geralt meets her eyes and gives her a small shrug.

“Well, have a seat, Geralt, Ciri, get our guest some water. Or, would you prefer a protein shake?”

Before Geralt can answer, Jaskier pipes up. “Oh my God, Aunt Cal, are you offering him one of those drinks that are basically just milky chalk? Are you trying to torture the man?”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Calanthe scoffs.

“Water’s fine, thanks,” Geralt rumbles.

“So how exactly do you two know each other, anyway?” Ciri pipes up, “Geralt didn’t say.”

Jaskier doesn’t look up when he replies, “He’s um… A customer.”

Calanthe glares sharply at Geralt, “Wait, at McDonald’s? Fuck, Rivia, there is _nothing_ you should be eating there.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Aunt Cal, he gets _coffee_. Black coffee, actually. Bit of a masochist, this one…”

“Hm,” is all Geralt has to offer.

Jaskier resolutely does not look at Geralt through dinner. Geralt has no idea what to say to Jaskier. Both of them are grateful for Ciri’s chattering, and both of them are looking for a reason to slink out of there as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the opening comes at the same time-

“ I should really go…”

“Time for me to head…”

They freeze and make eye contact for the first time all night. And _damnit_ Jaskier had forgotten how beautiful those eyes were.

Calanthe refuses to let them leave without bogging down Jaskier with another giant bag of leftovers.

“What about him?” Jaskier asks.

Calanthe raises her eyebrows. “I trust Rivia to feed himself. You, on the other hand…”

Jaskier flushes and hurries down the stairs, ignoring the good natured laughter that follows him.

Outside the evening is dark and clear, and the streetlights are just coming on. Jaskier resolutely _does not_ think about the last time he was out on the street with Geralt. He awkwardly scuffs his feet and looks up at Geralt.

“So, um, I’m going this way…” 

“Yeah. Me too.” Geralt replies.

“Oh. Um. OK. Then I guess we should… Walk. Together?”

“Guess we should.”

They walk in an oppressive silence for awhile that is going to suffocate Jaskier at any moment, he just fucking _knows_ it. With every step he takes the silence seems to get _more_ silent.

_Is that even possible?_

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says suddenly. Jaskier replies with what could generously be described as a _squawk_.

“What? _You’re_ sorry? Why are _you_ sorry? I’m the one who… well, who…”

Geralt stops walking and turns to face Jaskier. He seems to be searching for something, and then he hesitantly puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, making the action clear and giving Jaskier time to duck away.

“I get it. You obviously care about her. I’m protective of the people I care about too.”

Jaskier feels heat rushing to his face and his eyes and stubbornly bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from completely losing it in front of this gorgeous man. _Again_.

“That’s really generous of you, Geralt, but I feel like I owe you an explanation…”

“You don’t. You don’t owe me anything. But if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”

Jaskier laughs. “Childhood trauma is usually more of like, at least a date two conversation, isn’t it?”

Geralt smiles and Jaskier feels his heart do a flip and-

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

“Well, who knows, maybe we’ll get there.” Geralt says softly, “I know I’d still like that, if you would.”

Jaskier’s heart jumps into his mouth and renders him mute.

_Fuck._

“Can I walk you home?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier just nods.

They get a couple of steps away from Cintra before Geralt speaks again. 

"So what was it like growing up with the Lioness as a guardian? She as soft and sweet and nurturing as she seems?" 

Jaskier almost chokes on his sudden laughter. 

"Melitele's tits, Geralt, you don't want to know. Let me tell you the tale of the time I missed curfew by two hours. Now, in my defense, it was prom night, but Calanthe not _only_ showed up to the after party with a fucking _air horn,_ but..."


	6. In which Geralt swoons like a teenage girl-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do Geralt and Jaskier have a lot of heavy shit they need to talk about? ... yes. But the boys can have a lil make out. As a treat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope no one's in this fic for a "plot" because the "plot" is just cute boys working through feelings and past trauma. ;) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy xo

“VALDO. MARX.” Jaskier slams his beer on the table and glares at Triss with every ounce of assertive anger he can muster.

“Oh my God, calm down, Jaskier.”

Triss is laughing and this, oh, this will _not_ do.

“How _dare_ you, Triss Merigold?”

People in the bar are starting to peer over at their corner table.

_Good. Serves her right, the traitor-_

“Triss. You booked a gig for the band that _I_ co-founded with you. The band that _I_ wrote half of the songs for. And you come to me and say you plan to ask my _sworn_ mortal enemy, _Valdo Fucking Marx_ , to take my place?! Do you not recall what it was he called me in university, oh, what was it again- ‘a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses.’ And you consort with this knave! Knowingly! Shame upon thee, Triss Merigold. Shame!”

Jaskier points at her with a waggling index finger.

Triss stifles her laugh and waits for Jaskier to run out of steam. She calculates that he’s losing at least a fourth of his beer with the way he’s gesticulating using his sloshing pint glass. When he finally pauses his cheeks are flushed, and Triss can see the spark in his eye that gives away that he’s enjoying himself in his self righteous monologuing.

“Well now, my darling Jaskier,” Triss replies sweetly, “Twas not more than a full moon ago that our fair bard didst so solemnly announce to the masses that he had _renounced_ music for a more honest living…”

“Oh please,” Jaskier scowled, “You know better than to listen to my drunk Instagram ramblings.”

“I know _no_ such thing. Imagine the shock when my bandmate declared _our_ music a… oh what was it, a ‘superficial distraction from the aching void’?”

Triss raises her eyebrows and patiently waits for him to reply.

“OK, yes, maybe I _said_ something like that, but I didn’t _really_ mean it-"

Triss remains silent.

“OK, I see how that could have been misconstrued-"

Triss gives him a slight encouraging nod.

“And… You know what? Just forget it. Because I will be playing this and _every_ gig, and you can tell _Valdo_ to go fuck himself.”

Triss grins and throws herself at Jaskier into a hug, murmuring thanks into his ear. They untangle and Jaskier goes back to nursing his beer, looking a little bit embarrassed.

“Look, I’m sorry, Triss. I shouldn’t have… said those things. Performing with you has always been, you know…”

Jaskier stumbles over the words, because he doesn’t know how to say that playing with Triss has always meant everything to him. He doesn’t know how to say that he’s never experienced another joy like the one he has when he’s playing and performing. He doesn’t know how to say that music has always been the only thing he’s really cared about, but he’s been trying so hard to convince himself that it _isn’t_ because it doesn’t seem like something he actually gets to have, and it feels easier to just, push it away himself instead of having it taken from him. The world, the real world, is tough and cruel, and trying to keep a hold of beautiful things sometimes just feels… exhausting. He’s so tired of loss, he’s so tired of losing the things that he loves, but at the same time he realizes that he’s been grieving a life that… may not be out of reach for him just yet.

But hope feels so dangerous and wrong-

Everything is just so overwhelming and confusing, and every time he thinks he might be getting closer to figuring things out his bank account hits zero again, and he has to scramble to keep himself from starving, and he gets so focused on surviving that well, how can he even think of a future at all?

Those years at school, surrounded by music and theory and art, they feel like a weird fever-dream, a fluke. And now he’s back to reality. Cintra. Fighting. Sweat. Pain. That’s what he was always told his real life was.

_Get your head out of our ass, Jaskier, dreaming will only get you hurt._

Something… well, fuck. Something had well and truly snapped in him when his father had gotten out of prison last year. Jaskier doesn’t know what’s _wrong_ with him that he still craves the validation of that man, but when his dad had looked at him with so much disappointment and reproach, and when Jaskier had heard the way that the words _A musician, huh?_ had dripped off his father’s tongue with venom- Melitele save him, even at the memory of it Jaskier wants to rip off his skin so that he never has to feel the writhing burning itch of shame ever again.

“Earth to Jaskier!” Triss is waving her arms in front of his face.

Jaskier blinks once. Twice. And then smiles at her.

It’s going to be great. It’s going to be fine. It’s… all fine.

"Triss, I think this means you owe me at _least_ a shot."

***

_Jaskier:_ Hey spy man. 😊 I have a gig on Friday. Thought maybe you’d want to come?

 _Jaskier:_ Shit, I mean, my band. My band is playing on Friday.

 _Jaskier:_ In case that wasn’t obvious.

 _Jaskier:_ It probably was.

_Shut up, Jaskier._

Jaskier winces and forces himself to put down his phone and walk away. He’s usually _good_ at this. Words, that is. He’s usually good with them. He’s a songwriter for fuck’s sake... But fuck, what is he doing, that was such a bad idea, he can't... with Geralt... but... he wants to. And Jaskier is about done with denying himself the things that he wants. 

When his phone buzzes, he _pounces_ on it.

_~sexAy spy man:_ When and where?

 _Jaskier:_ 8pm. Horseshoe Tavern.

 _~sexAy spy man:_ I’ll be there.

***

Geralt nurses a beer in the back of a narrow venue. It’s dimly lit, and as more people enter it’s starting to get humid. He gently fingers the stamp on the back of his hand with amusement. He hasn’t been to a gig in years. Yennefer wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this, but Geralt had always preferred dive bars, for all their darkness and unpretentiousness. Sure, maybe your shoes make a faint ripping sound when you walk across sticky floors, and maybe when you piss you’re likely to see a mouse skittering over grimy, cracked tile, but he will take that any day over $20 cocktails, trance lounge music, and servers who have been trained to act like attentive robots.

Sound check has just ended and the stage waits, stagnant. A decent crowd has assembled—a mixture of young, hip kids crowding up front, and more skeptical, gruff regulars sticking to the bar in the back. Things are quiet for a minute and then-

Jaskier looks… Geralt will leave the flowery descriptions to the poets, but fuck the man looks good. Very good.

Jaskier starts to sing, and at once, Geralt forgets everything. Jaskier keeps singing, and Geralt wishes that he could be swallowed by the sound, to somehow live in its warmth. Rationally, Geralt knows that there’s no way that Jaskier can see him, he’s sure to be blinded by the stage lights, but the man’s eyes are so blue and they seem to be _looking_ at him-

Geralt claps at the end of the set, and gear gets hustled off the stage as they set up for the next band. He shakes his head ruefully and goes to the bar to grab another beer. He’s in his thirties, for Melitele’s sake, he’s too old to be swooning over musicians with messy hair, eyeliner, and strategically unbuttoned satin shirts, but…

He’s waiting at the bar for his beer, his back to the stage when he gets a playful shove.

“You came!” Geralt turns around and is rewarded with the sight of a beaming face.

“I did. Want a drink?”

Jaskier starts to nod, but then grins and pulls out two tickets from a pocket that Geralt can’t believe exists in his impossibly tight jeans. “Actually, I got this. We got paid in drink tickets, so might as well take advantage, if you can tip?”

They get their drinks and manage to find a dark corner booth away from the stage, back towards the ATM and the battered pool table. Jaskier is crackling with excited energy, so strangely similar and yet completely different from when Geralt saw him last. This time Jaskier can’t seem to keep a grin off his face, even as his hands twitch with restless energy. Jaskier is mesmerizing like this, Geralt thinks, so animated and full of joy. Geralt just wants to be around him-

“You’re… talented.” Geralt says, and impossibly, Jaskier’s face lights up even more.

“You think?” Jaskier doesn’t wait for a response, “I mean, honestly I’m rusty, we haven’t played for awhile and could only get together to rehearse a couple of times last week, but, it still felt good. It felt really good, actually.”

“You play a lot of different things,” Geralt is already not good with words, and now he’s trying to talk about music with a musician and it dawns on him that he is woefully out of his depth.

“Oh, you mean like instruments? Did you like that violin solo?” He laughs, “But I guess, yeah, well, I mean I have a degree in it, so I ought to be able to…”

“A degree?”

Jaskier swallows and looks uncomfortable, “Oh, it’s stupid, but it’s… I went to college in New York. Studied music. With Triss, actually. I moved back when my dad… Well anyway, I moved back. I really moved back for the glamour, of course… A West Coast McDonald’s just so much more glamorous than an East Coast one, don't you think?”

Jaskier laughs, high pitched, and Geralt frowns.

"Music, though. You love it." It's a statement, not a question. 

"Well, yeah. It's not practical, but..." 

“That’s impressive.”

“What, my thriving career in food service?” 

Geralt shrugs. “I didn’t finish high school. We’ve all worked plenty of shit jobs. That’s life. No, I think it’s impressive that you’re going after what you love. It takes guts.”

“Oh.” Jaskier says softly, suddenly aware of the fact that Geralt’s leg is next to his, aware of the prickling of his arm where it brushes against Geralt’s shoulder.

Jaskier leans in to kiss Geralt, barely keeping himself from crawling into the man’s lap. Geralt returns the kiss, strong and firm, and tangles his hand in Jaskier’s hair, pulling him in.

They’re both gasping when they come up for air.

“Can I take you home, Jaskier?”

“Oh my God, I thought you would never ask.”


	7. In which Jaskier takes a bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has a nightmare. Roach is the best cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for references to domestic violence, nightmares, and childhood trauma 
> 
> FOLKS, it is hard to write during a pandemic. Hope you all enjoy this short little one.

_Jaskier is in Cintra. It’s night and the gym is lit only by moonlight. He approaches the ring. The silhouette of his father looms over what looks like a broken doll. The ring is too big. It’s impossibly big. Jaskier can hear whimpering. Is that his mother? It can’t be. He tries to move closer, but he’s sinking into the floor. He hears her again, she’s calling his name. She’s hurting. He needs to get to her, but the more he tries to run the deeper he sinks into the floor. His father’s laughter and his mother’s whimpering are the last things he hears before he is swallowed by the floor._

“Jaskier,” says a voice urgently, from far away.

Half opening his eyes, he feels panic surge course through him and emerge from his mouth in wail. Arms grip his shoulders and shake. Jaskier’s eyes fly open and stares into bright amber. He doesn’t know where he is. He can’t breathe.

“Jaskier, it’s OK. It’s me. It’s me.”

He closes his eyes again. He can feel smooth sheets lightly resting on his body, which is slick with sweat. He can feel firm hands gripping his shoulders. He can feel pinpricks shooting up his arm. He can feel the warmth of the morning sun on his forehead.

“Can you look at me, Jaskier?”

Jaskier forces himself to look into Geralt’s eyes. _Geralt’s eyes_. Jaskier gets a hold of his breath.

“Sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier’s speech is still muffled from sleep, “Bad dream.”

Geralt grunts, abruptly leaves the room and for a minute Jaskier _panics._

_It’s 2019. I’m 23 years old. I just woke up in hot guy’s bed, because an adult. And I’m safe. I’m safe._

Geralt comes back quickly with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and fluffy black cat in the other. He puts the cup of coffee on the nightstand next to Jaskier and dumps the cat on his chest. The cat promptly curls up on his chest and flicks its tail in his face, and Jaskier can’t help but laugh. 

“And who is this handsome fellow?” Jaskier asks, stroking the cat’s ears and smiling as the cats purr starts to reverberate in his bones.

“That’s Roach,” Geralt is smiling a relieved smile, “She likes you.”

“Well that’s good because I like her too.” Jaskier stops petting her for a moment and she flicks her head back, glaring at him accusingly. “She has beautiful eyes, like her dad.”

“Don’t tell her that, it’ll go straight to her head.”

“How about yours?” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Geralt laughs at that, a guffaw that comes from deep in his chest and Jaskier feels warm. “So you’re feeling better then?”

Jaskier reaches for the coffee mug and takes a sip, careful not to jostle the now sleeping cat.

“Absolutely. I’m… I just get nightmares sometimes. Part of the whole ‘trauma’ thing that I guess we should talk about at some point, but really I’d rather talk about last night because that was… amazing.”

Jaskier’s smile falters when he sees Geralt’s frown.

“Last night… was amazing… right?” He continues, hesitantly, and then Geralt’s lips are on his and he catches his breath and kisses back, curling his hand into Geralt’s soft hair and pulling him closer. And when Geralt whispers _yes_ into his ear he feels it all over his body.

Roach jumps off Jaskier and stalks away, unimpressed.

Geralt pulls away and looks at Jaskier with heavy-lidded eyes. “I have to go. I wish I didn’t.”

Jaskier starts to push the sheets off of himself, realizes he’s still naked, and pulls them back up again to his chin, scanning the room for wherever his clothes ended up.

“I can… I just need my clothes,” his voice cracks again, and Jaskier blames crowded bars and late night sidewalk smokers.

Geralt just smirks at him.

“No, Jaskier, stay, please. Here’s a spare key, just shove it through the mailbox on your way out. Or… stay? I have a jacuzzi tub, cable, and a fridge full of food.”

Jaskier looks at him uncertainly. “Are you sure? I could steal all of your stuff while you’re away?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Did you forget that I know the Lioness?”

Jaskier shudders. He had, in fact, been trying to forget that. Geralt leans in to kiss him one more time and murmurs _stay_ in his ear. Then he grabs a gym bag and leaves Jaskier alone in the apartment.

It’s been a long time since Jaskier has been in a king size bed, and he slowly notices the absence of the permanent kink he’s gotten in his back from sleeping on his pull-out couch. He falls back into the pillows and pulls the covers back over him, relishing the feel of the down duvet.

_Apparently Geralt has a taste for the finer things._

He leisurely pulls himself out of bed and looks around the apartment. He hadn’t really _noticed_ anything besides Geralt last night, if he’s being perfectly honest with himself.

_But oh, there had been so much to notice about Geralt. His abs. He shoulders. His..._

He’s still shaking off the sinking dread of the dream, but trauma might be insidious, but Jaskier is _stubborn as fuck_. He had an amazing night with a sexy man, and fuck nightmares and fuck his father—the man has already ruined so much for Jaskier, but he doesn’t get to ruin _this_. The world is kind of garbage, but sometimes there are moments of happiness and love and-

 _Oh, Melitele’s aereola, love? No, stop. Shut up, brain_.

He gets to have this.

So, stubbornly, Jaskier finds himself filling up Geralt’s jacuzzi tub, and adding the lavender bath salts that he’s honestly surprised to find, into the warm water. He lights the tea lights that are artfully placed around the bath which, again, kind of weird, but whatever, and submerges himself in the water, closes his eyes, and tries to forget anything else exists besides the scent of lavender and the soft sound of water lapping against his bare skin.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he comes back to himself with a start, as he hears the front door open and close. Could Geralt be back already? Have I really been in the bath for _that_ long?

“Geralt, darling?” he hears a woman’s elegant voice drift across the apartment.

_What the fuck?_


	8. In which Yennefer asks for a favour-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I've had a bit of a meltdown these past couple of weeks and wasn't up for updating. But we're back, baby, so buckle up for some more pining, misunderstandings, and angst.
> 
> * EDIT: Hey friends, I realized I should have added a CW for unhealthy relationships and manipulative behaviour that can be triggering for some. Added to the tags now, apologies! *

Jaskier isn’t thinking about it.

He _isn’t_ thinking about the sexy boxer who is very clearly _taken_ and is also very clearly a _bastard_. He _isn’t_ thinking about the very sexy _literal supermodel_ who had circled him like a predatory feline while he shivered uncomfortably in a towel in the very room where he had recently been fucked by her fiancé.

He isn’t thinking about the way she said: _Oh, you must be Geralt’s new plaything. Scrawnier than I expected._ as though he was some kind of sex toy or something which… maybe wasn’t completely inaccurate but very much not the _fucking point_ and by the way he may not be a supermodel but he is most certainly not _scrawny_. He is _elegant_ and _lithe_.

He isn’t thinking about the way he’d tripped over his words when he asked her who she was, and the way she raised amused eyebrows back at him, flashed a rather garish diamond ring, and rummaged through a dresser drawer to pull out a framed photo of her kissing Geralt in front of fucking _Niagara Falls._

_Tacky, Geralt. Honestly._

He isn’t thinking about how he muttered something about leaving his cat on the stove, backing into a wall, and literally fleeing Geralt’s apartment because, fuck, this woman was beautiful and scary as hell and Jaskier knows he might not always have the best self-preservation instincts, but he does care very much about the well-being of his penis, thank you, and wanted to leave with as many balls as he arrived with. Literally, at least.

And he certainly hadn’t spent the last two weeks thinking about the way his body had felt _so right_ when it was with Geralt’s. He didn’t think about how safe he’d felt falling asleep in the man’s arms, sweaty and spent and still.

He pulls out his phone and tells himself not to do it. This is so stupid. What does he think he’s going to get out of this. He wishes that he’d never seen that stupid fucking billboard and he wishes he didn’t now know Yennefer Venderberg’s Instagram handle, because if he didn’t know _that_ then he wouldn’t be prowling through her posts from years ago for any and all evidence of her relationship with Geralt and…

Ok, fine. He’s thinking about it.

Triss has officially banned him from speaking about it.

_He’s a cheating asshole, Jask. Don’t dwell on it._

But… maybe they had some kind of open relationship? Yennefer hadn’t seemed _surprised_ to see him, after all. She was just… intimidating and vaguely threatening. And Geralt had called him a few times since and sent a text that just said: _Can we talk?_

He’d been with Triss at a bar when he’d gotten it, which was the only thing that kept him from sending a very misguided, expletive heavy reply.

He scrolls through Yennefer’s Instagram and assesses that the woman spends a lot of time posing on beaches and drinking champagne.

_How relatable. How very similar to my own lifestyle. I can definitely see exactly what it is that Geralt sees in me. Saw in me. Fuck._

He jumps when his phone starts ringing in his hand, and smirks once he sees the name flashing across the screen.

“Countess,” he purrs into the phone, “How lovely to hear from you.”

*

_Two weeks earlier-_

“What the fuck, Yen? Aren’t you supposed to be in Bali or something or, just, somewhere, _anywhere,_ that isn’t _my_ apartment?”

Yen doesn’t respond immediately, languidly swirling her wine glass before looking up at him innocently.

“Geralt darling, you of all people should know that plans change. Do come in and set down those grocery bags. They look heavy.”

Geralt grumbles at her, but obeys, dumping the groceries he had been hoping to make Jaskier a meal with, and stalking back to the living room.

“Give me back the key.”

Yennefer levels him with a steady gaze.

“Sit down, darling.”

_Don’t sit._

Geralt sits.

He’s angry with her. He should be angry with her. She can’t just _waltz_ back into his life unannounced.

Except she can. And she has. And _damnit_ why can he never say the word _no_ to this woman.

Everyone had always told him that she had him wrapped around her little finger. He usually retorted that he only ever did exactly what he wanted, but sometimes… He opens his mouth to speak but Yennefer cuts him off-

“Don’t worry, I didn’t harm your little boytoy if that’s what you’re worried about. I just let him know that I needed to speak with you, rather urgently, and he was on his way.”

“Fuck, Jask…” Geralt starts to stand and Yennefer places a hand firmly on his thigh.

“Your plaything can wait. I need a favour.”

Geralt sighs deeply. Whatever it is, he really shouldn’t say yes. They aren’t together anymore. They both need space to move on-

“I was recently offered the role of a lifetime by a renowned and, well, notoriously _handsy_ director.”

Geralt grimaces.

“I know. But you know I’ve been chasing this for ages, and this could be my breakthrough. I just need to take certain… precautions.”

“Yen…”

“Listen, realistically, I just need you for one night. One red carpet. You’re rather intimidating, and much as it pains me to admit, men tend to respect women more when they’re the _property_ of other men,” she spits out the last sentence with disdain.

“So you want me to be your beard at some industry event.”

“And pretend to be my violent, overbearing, devastatingly strong and handsome fiancé for the duration of the film’s shoot.”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

“I won’t stop you from your dalliances, darling. God knows, you deserve to have some fun. I’m just asking you to be… discrete for the time being. For the next, six months or so.”

“Yen…”

“This is _important_ , Geralt. You know how important this is to me. Please. Say yes? For old time’s sake, at least?”

Geralt should say no. He knows he should say no. 

Geralt says yes. 


End file.
